


an entirely different kind of overwhelming

by ayjayjay



Series: you don’t deserve yourself [3]
Category: South Park
Genre: Crossdressing, Gay Panic, Gender Confusion, M/M, School Reunion, Unresolved Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayjayjay/pseuds/ayjayjay
Summary: He bites down on the thought, deciding not to give a shit what Stan does and doesn’t share with him. Even if Stan’s been hoarding pictures of Kenny in dresses, Kenny in skirts, Kenny in women’s clothing, Kenny in... Eric shook his head, dispelling the impure and intrusive mental image of Kenny in all of those things, or in nothing at all.He’s blocked on Stan’s Instagram anyway.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick
Series: you don’t deserve yourself [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933627
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	an entirely different kind of overwhelming

**Author's Note:**

> hiii welcome to another reposted fic! i didn’t do a ton of editing on this one, but what i *did* add makes it flow a lot better imo! apologies in advance for any errors, as this was un-betaed even before revisions.
> 
> as always, enjoy and thanks for reading!

It wasn’t often that high schools had such a blowout for something as insignificant as their five-year reunion, but South Park was small, and despite his best efforts to ignore it, Eric finds himself cooped up in his childhood bedroom for a week as all of Park County’s best and braindead population also migrate to their homes. Though he didn’t actively seek to visit the estates of any of his so-called high school friends, he arrives fashionably on-time to the reunion itself, unsurprised to find  _ Wendy fucking Testaburger _ of all people handing out name tags to the throngs of small town trash Eric had barely even thought about since leaving. As he picks up his own name tag and busies himself peeling back the sticky side, Wendy’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline from across the welcome table.

“Take a picture, Testaburger,” he says in lieu of a formal hello. 

“Cartm—Eric, you—” she starts, but collects herself and turns on a thousand-watt trademarked smile. The last time Eric heard, Wendy was selling real estate to yuppies and families outside (and he had to gag) Boulder; she had the attitude for it, pushy in all the right places. She was also single now, having permanently shed Stan from her life at her graduation party. “It’s… nice to see you. I didn’t think you were gonna fly all the way from the east coast just for this! Wow, you look great!”

“Yeah, right,” Eric says, sneering as he smooths the cheap paper with his name written in Wendy’s loopy handwriting against his shirt. “I couldn’t miss this shitshow for the world.” It was true. This would most certainly be worth taking the time off his day job, to see his classmates awkwardly interact until someone eventually spiked the punch bowl and all hell broke loose. Not to mention there were bound to be things to do after, before everyone went home; Eric could see it now—tomorrow the air in South Park would be thick with hangovers, cum, and regret.

“How innocent a reason for coming.” The smile on Wendy’s face dies, and one of her immaculate eyebrows is on the upturn again. She greets people who pass, handing out more nametags, and seems surprised that Eric loiters by the desk, peoplewatching. “Uh… Cartman? The door is that way.”

“I know,” Eric says, sniffing a little.

“Are you... going to go?”

“Eventually. Maybe.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure everyone you were friends with is in there already. Stan, Kyle, even Ke—“

Eric barks a laugh and cuts her off. “No, no, Wendy,” he says, a hand to his chest in indignation. “Kyle and I were never friends. We simply had a mutual hate-hate relationship.”

“Is that right,” Wendy deadpans.

“Exactly right.”

“Just go the hell inside already! This isn’t part of the reunion activities, and I’m busy!” Wendy takes him by the shoulders and guides him to the double doors leading into the gymnasium. 

Once inside, Eric lingers against the wall and picks at his thumbnail with his pointer finger after he retrieves a beer for himself. God, it looks and feels way too much like a prom in the gymnasium, but the open bar helps. Now it’s more like a wedding, really. He crushes back a can quickly, feeling a bit nervous. Not that he hadn’t thought about what it would be like, talking to Kyle and Stan and everyone else after basically five years of no contact, but… now that he was right here, it was a tough pill to swallow. He’s unsure whether he should even start looking around or not.

Kyle had texted him an hour ago, a precursory “Are you going to the reunion?” that he hadn’t bothered to answer. They always seem to find each other anyway. 

Eric hears a shrill voice cut through the air— _ Stanley, I swear to god _ —and he looks up over the commotion of the half-full gym, following the noise. Standing a little ways away from him are the figures of Stan and Kyle, and beside them a lanky pretty boy in a dress that exposes his entire back and his hairy legs, holding a can of beer in painted fingernails, inappropriately dressed for the weather. No doubt he’s one of those artsy college sissies Kyle loves to befriend.

Eric scoffs to himself, but then the guy smiles with a mouthful of fucked up teeth and turns his head and the beer settling in Eric’s stomach enters his bloodstream all at once, and his face heats up to a million degrees.

_ It’s Kenny.  _

Eric’s eyes widen, scanning Kenny’s body. It’s not that he looks—Eric gulps— _ bad _ . In fact, he looks…. uncomfortably attractive, hairy legs swishing in his little dress and shoulders bobbing with laughter. He’s always been attractive, in an objective and heterosexual sense, and not to mention as far as trailer trash goes, but he exudes a new kind of easy confidence somehow in his backless dress like it’s totally normal, pressing his fingertips to Stan’s elbow and leaning close to Kyle, who laughs. 

Eric swallows. 

Kenny’s hair has gotten longer and it frames his face better than the home-grown mullet Eric last saw him in. It’s still mullet-adjacent, but the sharp angles of his face are less prominent now, less malnourished and depressing. He’s not wearing fake tits or makeup or whatever as far as Eric can tell from a few yards away. He’s even wearing a pair of tattered sneakers with long socks that sag around his bony ankles. He looks better for the meat on his bones, stomach a flat line rather than the concave depression of his youth. 

He looks completely different than the last time Eric saw him, crying and angry and so skinny, berating Eric for….  _ god _ , Eric lies to himself,  _ it’d been so long he barely even remembers what Kenny had been so angry about. _

Anyway, it’s not that he looks bad. It’s just… it’s just…  _ it’s just…! _

As if in slow-motion, Kenny takes a swig of beer, the long line of his throat bobbing with the swallow, and then he turns his head in Eric’s direction, messy blonde hair slipping down one shoulder. They make eye contact; Kenny’s face suddenly mirrors Eric’s—eyes wide, mouth open in horrified surprise, fingers gripping his beer can too hard. Kenny turns bright red, all the way to his ears, and suddenly his face screws up into something Eric’s only seen once, in his own backyard. Kenny turns quickly, and walks in the opposite direction, straight out the double doors in the back of the gym. Stan and Kyle stare after him, but do not follow. Eric stands like a statue, unsure of what to do.

“Eric, is that you?”

Butters’ voice rings clear across the crowd of sweaty post-adolescence. Usually Eric doesn’t find large crowds useful for anything beyond bottomless beer, but tonight he’s grateful for the easy dynamics of his childhood coming in handy again. He’s never been so happy to see Butters. 

Eric clutches the (cheap, piss-tasting) Miller Lite can in his fist and adjusts his fingers in the condensation on it. “Hey,” he says too loudly, feeling his blood pressure rising. 

_It was fucking Kenny! _

He focuses on Butters instead of the imaginary pair of eyes boring holes into his jacket. Butters looks good too these days, healthier and happier now that he only spends at most a month home a year. Eric hadn’t known his hair was curly, but the undercut Butters is rocking these days falls in ringlets over his forehead and bobs when bodies brush past him. He even has a little pencil moustache, and it suits his face so well that Eric can’t tease him for it.

“Golly, it’s good to see you,” Butters chirps. He’s not holding a drink, but his cheeks are a telltale pink, and he even gives Eric a hug. “When I heard you were stayin’ in town those first few years outta college, I was kinda worried about you!”

Eric takes another swig of his beer. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, crossing his arms. “I’m not fucking suicidal! I was just… doing what people our age did! Figuring it out!”

“Well it sounds alright when you put it like that!” Butters smiles and bumps Eric’s arm with his fist. It’s a little creepy; he doesn’t remember Butters being so touch-friendly to anyone, but then again, going away to college has a way of making everybody ten thousand times gayer, apparently. First Kyle and Stan, who had both come out on their—Eric gags internally to think of it like this— _ first Thanksgiving apart _ , then Butters to nobody’s surprise, and now…

Now…

Eric’s head swirls. Now Kenny was wearing dresses and nail polish and lip gloss. Going up to college with Stan  _ had  _ made him ten thousand times gayer. He should have never let Kenny live in California for so long. “What’s the deal with Kenny?” He blurts. “Why’s he dressing like a chick now?”

“What did you say?” Butters giggles, leaning closer. It seems like the crowd is getting exponentially louder and louder. Eric needs some fresh air, needs some room to breathe before he throws up the stale beer and uncomfortable feelings lodged in his throat.

“Kenny,” Eric yells in his ear. “What the fuck happened to Kenny?”

“Huh? Kenny’s here. Why, is he okay?”

“No, Kenny’s not—god damn it, Butters!” Eric grabs him by the shoulders and holds him there. “Why. Is Kenny. Wearing a dress.”

“Gosh, Eric,” Butters grins smugly, or maybe that’s just his normal grin, but Eric hasn’t seen it enough to know. It’s unnerving to see Butters without the telltale horror in his eyes, without fearing Eric. “How should I know? Kenny likes wearin’ dresses!”

“Yeah, but—” Eric looks around, as though Kenny will be behind him, listening in. He’s lost sight of Kyle’s curls and Stan’s greasy black hair, though, so he’s in the clear from interrogation. “But nobody’s gonna say anything about it?”

“Is there a problem?” Butters asks, eyebrows furrowed. “I thought he looked real happy in all the pictures Stan sent!”

_ The what?!,  _ Cartman’s brain supplies, but he bites down on it, deciding not to give a shit what Stan does and doesn’t share with him. Even if Stan’s been hoarding pictures of Kenny in dresses, Kenny in skirts, Kenny in women’s clothing, Kenny in... Eric shook his head, dispelling the impure and intrusive mental image of Kenny in all of those things, or in nothing at all. 

He’s blocked on Stan’s Instagram anyway. 

“No, I. No! I just. Is that… you know…” He waves his hand awkwardly, trying to find the words.

“I know what?”

“Don’t fucking play dumb! Is he—y’know… a chick, or whatever now? Is that what this is?”

Butters laughs into his hand. “I think Kenny just does what he wants,” he says. “There’s no boy or girl about it! He’s just Kenny.”

“ _ Just Kenny _ my ass! The last time he wore a dress he was ten! They really did a fuckin’ number on him at Stan’s dick suck college, huh?”

Butters, much to Eric’s surprise, jabs him with his elbow. “Oh, hush,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. “You better be nice, Eric, he looks nice!”

“Yeah, I’m sure my opinion of his whore dress really means a lot to him.”

“It  _ does _ , Eric! He was nervous to come tonight because he was worried about somethin’ like this happenin’!”

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Kyle told me,” Butters announces, crossing his arms. “And I’m tellin’ you one more time, Eric, you had better be nice to Kenny! Nobody deserves to get hate-crimed at their reunion!”

“That gossipy bitch,” Eric says, rolling his eyes at the idea that anyone would dare  _ hate-crime _ someone as scrappy and wild as Kenny and setting his sights on the fuming form of Kyle, camped out beside Stan, picking little bits of prosciutto off a board of charcuterie passive aggressively as Stan chats with someone Eric’s never met. “Kyle!”

He raises his head in excitement, probably hoping for a respite from Stan’s unstoppable dick-wagging and elbow-rubbing, but when he catches sight of Eric, Kyle sneers and stuffs more prosciutto into his mouth. “Oh,” he says when Eric comes to a stop on the other side of the table. “Hi, Cartman.”

“Yeah, yeah, skip the pleasantries, Jew,” Eric says, eyes glued to the door Kenny had exited through, over Kyle’s shoulder. “What’s Kenny’s problem?”

“Well it’s nice to see you haven’t changed one bit,” Kyle sighs. “What  _ problem _ are you referring to?” He was less shrill now, but much more condescending. Law school and undoubtedly obscene gay sex with Stan will do that to you.

“His—he’s dressed like a woman,” Eric says, cracking open another beer can loudly. “You can’t tell me you and Stan had nothing to do with this.”

Kyle shakes his head in disbelief. “What fucking rock do you live under, fatass?”

“Whuh—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Kyle says, crossing his arms over his chest, “that we’re in the greatest sexual revolution since before the AIDS crisis, dude. Kenny has embraced of gender non-conforming self expression that small towns like this one tend to oppress.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “Great to hear, Georgia O’Keefe, but can you say it in plain English for those of us not on planet rainbows?”

“Georgia O’Keefe is a painter,” Kyle says.

“Yeah, well, she wasn’t painting weiners! What’s your point?!”

“The point,” Stan says, finding time away from nursing his beer to stand behind Kyle and rest his chin on the top of Kyle’s head. It makes Eric wanna hurl, the way they finish each others’ thoughts even years later. “Is that Kenny wears whatever he wants and does whatever he wants, because gender is dead and clothes are just fabric. It’s his manifesto, or whatever.”

“What kind of fucking water have you people been drinking on the west coast?! His  _ manifesto _ ?”

“Do you still hate gays, fatass?” Kyle asks, one eyebrow raised.

Eric groans, running his hands down his face. “ _ I’m _ gay, you dipstick! Or at least half-gay, but that’s not—this has nothing to do with being gay or transgendered or whatever the fuck!  _ This _ is about Kenny, and what living with a granola crunching dick sucking hippie and his call boy did to him!”

Stan laughs and shakes his head. “We didn’t do anything to him,” he says. “He was wearing this kinda stuff way before I even came out, when we lived together in my dorm. This is Kenny’s thing, dude.”

“So you don’t deny Kyle being your call boy?”

“Shut the fuck up, Cartman! We aren’t even entertaining that kind of shit!” Kyle’s ears turn pink.

Eric rubs his face again, scrubbing at his eyes. The shirt he’s wearing is one of his nicest, starched and ironed to perfection at the dry cleaners’, but it never fails to make him stiff and itchy and exhausted. Not that this Kenny shit is helping at all. “I’m—ugh. This is just too much for me. I just can’t accept that this is the reality we live in.”

“That’s pretty harsh,” Stan says, swirling the last swigs of beer around the bottom of his bottle. “He was your friend, dude, even if you don’t talk anymore.”

It’s not that it’s even about Kenny in the dress so much as it’s about Kenny in general. Why was he even here, if he didn’t graduate? Eric shouldn’t care, especially since their fight about emotions and entanglement had put an end to their friendship seemingly for good, leaving Eric detached and Kenny all but reclusive, but Kenny had been the only person Eric had ever really felt an abnormal amount of attachment towards in the first place. His only real friend. Even now, he can almost feel his adolescent self️ picking apart the imaginary ways Kenny had betrayed him with this very act of defiance—it irks Eric to know that Kenny had a hidden part of himself kept hidden to everyone , and he’s about to open his mouth to say so when a lanky figure creeps up on Eric’s side.

“Hey, guys,” Kenny says. “What’s up?”

Eric jumps out of his skin. “Sneaky motherfucker,” he swears, bumping the table slightly. 

Kenny is close enough that Eric can smell cigarette smoke and weed clinging to him, and he can see a clear lip-glossy sheen on his lips. It had been very distracting from far away, but up close it’s an even stranger sight, Kenny’s ugly mixed in with Kenny’s pretty. It kind of works. He has barrettes in his hair.

“That’s not nice,” Kenny reprimands, lopsided smile on full display. His eyes look a little sad, though, a little heartbroken as they graze Eric’s face. “You’re in my spot, anyway.”

“Um,” Eric says dumbly, gripping his beer can. His cheeks are warm from a mixture of confusion, betrayal, and… something he doesn’t care to define. “Hey.”

“Long time no see, right?” Kenny’s eyes flick up and down Eric’s face as if reveling in the look they find there. The bastard. When he parts his lips to talk, they stick together slightly. What the  _ fuck. _

“Yeah, it, uh.” He shrugs. “It flies.”

“Should we… leave you guys alone?” Kyle asks, ignoring the daggers Eric sends him.

Kenny laughs, glancing over at Kyle for a fraction of a second before his eyes snap back to Eric. “Um, actually I’m gonna go have a smoke,” he says. “Cartman, you coming?”

Kyle and Stan exchange a surprised look. Eric flushes to nearabout his shoulders, embarrassed steam practically exiting his ears.  The fucking _nerve_ on this one.

“Smells like you just had one,” Eric mutters to himself, then yelps when Kenny kicks him hard in the shin. “Ey—fuck you! Now I’m definitely not going!”

“Suit yourself,” Kenny says, and he saunters towards the back door again. Eric genuinely considers not following, especially because he can feel Kyle and Stan holding their collective breath for his reaction. In the end, though, he can’t resist the way Kenny’s stupid bony hips sway in his skirt as he walks away. For god’s sake, he even looks back over his shoulder with a toss of his scraggly hair as if expecting to see Eric on his heels. Eric groans and takes off in Kenny’s direction. 

He  _ has _ to know more, has to get a private glimpse of Kenny as he is now, untouched by Eric’s meddling for years, otherwise he won’t be able to rest until the next reunion. 

“Didn’t think you were coming out,” Kenny says from the curb when the gym’s exterior door clangs shut on the brick propping it open. He already has a cigarette lit and sucks it down as he stares across the parking lot, long legs splayed every which way, edges of his boxers visible in the obscene way he manspreads. Before Eric even gets himself situated on the concrete, Kenny has his pack offered. 

Eric accepts one, and Kenny’s lighter as well, even though he doesn’t smoke. They suck on their cancer sticks in a semi-comfortable silence, Eric watching the way the very tip of Kenny’s filter shines in the light from the shit on his lips, before Eric breaks the silence. “What’s with the dress?”

Kenny laughs crazily, looking over at Eric with wide eyes. When Eric gives him a look like he’s insane, he shakes his head and manages to calm his giggles. “It’s just—I thought you’d be meaner about it.”

“Meaner?”

“That’s a real diplomatic way to ask me if I’m a crossdresser, man.”

Eric blushes again; he seems to be doing a lot of that all of a sudden. It’s getting pretty old. “I don’t think you’re a crossdresser.”

Kenny hums at his feet, flicking ash.

“Unless it’s for money,” Eric continues, which makes Kenny laugh and brings a grin to his own face. “Stan said it’s your manifesto or whatever, looking like a lesbian Ziggy Stardust.”

“You think it looks bad?”

“I didn’t say that. I was more of a dick inside, though. Butters told me not to hurt your feelings. I thought about it, but you’d probably use it to flagellate yourself the next five years, so. I’m being nice.”

Kenny drags his gaze along the asphalt under their feet until it meets Eric’s, searching his face for some hint of irony or anger. When he’s satisfied with what he finds there instead—and Kenny usually is, because he has a gift for reading people’s emotions as easily as that—Kenny bumps him with his elbow. Eric’s cigarette, barely touched but still burning proudly, ashes onto his knee, and Kenny brushes it away. His hand lingers for just a second longer than average on the inside of Eric’s leg before he pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound it.

“It’s fine,” Eric says, even though it isn’t.

Kenny looks Eric up and down again, but this time it’s different. Rather than an appraising gaze or a doubtful analysis, it’s like Kenny’s eyes are glued to his soul, lingering here and there, comparing the Eric in front of him to the Eric of his memory. “You’re still fat,” he finally says, but his voice is warm.

Eric snorts. “No shit, Kenny.  _ I’m  _ fat.” He pats his stomach and ignores the way Kenny’s eyes flick down to follow the arc of movement. “You’re less anorexic.”

“Who knew selling art to people that wanna fuck humanoid dogs would be so lucrative, dude? I’m eating like a king, man. Karen, too.” 

“Selling what?” Eric blinks.

“Furry art, dude. Dog and whatever fuckers. They draw themselves as animals and wear big mascot suits.” Kenny shrugs. “Lame as fuck but it’s lucrative, man. I had a guy drop 1K on a drawing ‘cuz he was gonna 3D print a life-size doll of some snake girl with massive tits.”

Eric wrinkles his nose. “Um, disgusting?”

“Whatever, dude, don’t yuck someone else’s yum, at least not ‘til you try making money off it.” Kenny lights another cigarette, laying back on the dirty concrete and resting on one arm. The subject passes without much protest.

“Shouldn’t we go back inside?” Eric doesn’t really give a shit beyond the massive amounts of shit-talking Kyle and Stan are bound to spread across their whole graduating class if they leave, but that in itself is grounds enough for bullshitting his way through appearances and rubbing elbows with Clyde Donovan and the gaywad squad he used to run with. “Wendy’ll get pissed.”

“Oh, fuck her,” Kenny says, standing up abruptly before offering his hand to Eric. Without any hesitation, he takes it, surprising himself and Kenny. “Let’s go smoke a joint in my truck before we go play match the baby photo to the high school photo.”

Eric grins at him, and they slide into Kenny’s same worn out truck with ease. Eric’s surprised it hasn’t given out yet; he tells Kenny so as he cracks the window on his side of the cab. Kenny laughs and does the same on his side before clicking on the worn out stereo, some band Eric’s never heard of blasting through the speakers. They’re okay, the right amounts of whiny and angsty and raunchy with a semi-talented vocalist. It fits Kenny, in a way. As Kenny rolls beside him, Eric listens to the music with his head pressed against the back window, eyes closed.  _ I can’t handle astounding works of beauty,  _ the vocalist wails, carried by a melancholy acoustic track.  _ I think I like my pretty, pretty ugly! _

Kenny flicks his lighter as the song devolves into a long series of metaphors for the singer’s mental breakdown, and before Eric can crack his eyes open, Kenny has his fingers pressed against Eric’s lips. He inhales, worries that maybe Kenny can somehow sense the way his heart rate picks up. Kenny pulls away and Eric exhales before opening his eyes. Through the smoke billowing around them, Kenny looks ethereal, bathed in the moonlight and the washed out yellow of the parking lot lights. 

He’s delicate, like a paper doll almost, pursing his lips just a little to take his hit, appraising Eric from underneath his lashes.

They both lean back on the truck doors and pass the joint between them, as much space between them as possible, and Kenny extinguishes the roach into his ashtray when they finish. Kenny bends over into the no-man’s-land they’ve created in the seat, and Eric watches the way the skirt bunches up at his thigh obsessively, burning it into his mind. Kenny notices this and laughs. 

“Didn️’t you tell me once I was too scrubby to be hot?” He lets his hand fall in his lap. Eric watches it go, then drag slowly down Kenny’s thigh, before he realizes it’s on purpose. He rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think I said it in that way exactly. You were, back then. You didn’t even have a shower that worked, and you looked like the poster child for CPS.”

“And now?” Kenny asks.

“Now what?”

“I  _ was _ too scrubby. What about now?”

Eric swallows hard, giving Kenny a hard examination. What can he even say that Kenny doesn’t obviously already know? He looks gorgeous right now, beyond hetero- or homo- or bi- and into pure sexuality. With the blue-white glow from the moon and the yellow of the overhead floodlights casting geometric patterns across his freckled skin, Kenny really does look like an angel, or like Dionysus, or some other campy shit. His hair down his exposed shoulders and eyes half-lidded only add to how demure he seems from across the truck, and his lips…

Eric looks away, and licks his own. 

“Wow,” Kenny says, face a little pink. “That answers that, I guess?”

“Screw you,” Eric says. He doesn’t meet Kenny’s eye.

“You obviously want to,” Kenny grins.

“I do fucking  _ not _ ,” Eric shouts, but when Kenny slinks his bony arms across the gap and climbs into Eric’s lap, there’s no protest. He simply slides to give Kenny easier access, marveling at the way Kenny’s head brushes the truck’s roof and gives his hair a little more frizz. 

Kenny situates himself before hesitating a moment, maybe admiring the view, maybe gauging Eric’s reaction. Then, he presses their mouths together. He’s a surprisingly gentle kisser; instead of the open-mouth necking Kenny had once been known to unleash on party girls, the kiss is barely more than movement of their lips, but it still makes Eric’s head spin and his blood rush in his ears. When Kenny pulls away, the sticky gunk on his lips almost doesn’t let him.

_ Ohhhhh,  _ Eric thinks,  _ that’s why girls wear it. _

“How was that?” Kenny asks, suddenly sheepish though he’s got his ass on Eric’s dick. “Was that—are you like, good?”

“What a boner-kill of a line of questioning, good god.”

“I’m sorry!” Kenny blushes and tries to scramble off Eric’s lap, but Eric stills him with a hand on his hip. “The last time you and I talked...” Kenny didn’t finish, trailing off and looking out the window. He seems to lose some resolve, sliding down a bit on Eric’s thighs as though he means to slip away entirely.

“I wasn’t  _ that _ mean,” Eric mumbles, thumb grazing Kenny’s inner thigh as his other hand rests on Kenny’s back, holding him in place. “It was—you were delusional, man. Way too entitled to me, like you had ownership or some shit. You were obsessive, and needy. It was a turn-off.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit, man. You were meaner than you think.” Kenny grins, inches his thigh forward again, leaning into Eric’s touch. “Besides, fuckface, I wasn’t wrong for being entitled, right? Who’s in my truck right now, with me in his lap, with a boner pressed into my ass?”

Eric pulls Kenny down for another kiss this time, fingers fisted in the fabric of his dress as he shuts Kenny the hell up.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is lifted from ‘linda ronstadt’ by AJJ. it’s also the song kenny is listening to in his truck. i think kenny would really appreciate their music and subject matter.


End file.
